Cradle of the Chaos Theory
by Thyme In Her Eyes
Summary: Drusilla's thoughts as she discovers a heartbroken William and considers turning him...


Cradle of the Chaos Theory : By CrimsonFuchsia  
  
Author's Note: This is set round about the episode 'Fool For Love' in Spike's flashback of his turning. It focuses on Drusilla (and is seen from her POV) and what may have been going through her mind that convinced her to turn William. This is a little shorter than most of my stories usually are but please still bear with me. Also, I'm not an expert on how tarot cards etc work but I've dabbled in a little research but please, chances are I have it wrong so please don't throw stones at me! Oh yeah, feedback is my sole reason for breathing 90% of the time so please feel free to share your feedback! ^_^  
  
Disclaimer: Dru, William/Spike and 'Buffy: The Vampire Slayer' and all the trimmings are nothing to do with me - they are all children of the evil genius that is Joss Whedon. No copyright infringement is intended and I'm not making any money out of this scribbling. So don't sue me, please.  
  
Cradle of the Chaos Theory  
  
Who should I possess? Who should I kiss goodnight before waking them up to a world of tea with blood covering the crumpets? Who can I make my special friend, as precious and beautiful as Miss Edith (only much less wicked)? Her eyes burn me like the sun full of flames and sparks all dancing for me, telling me that I should stay with Daddy, that he gave me his black touch and I should be his forever. And she won't shush, not even when I tie her chatty little mouth shut and give her cakes with the moon's whispers.  
  
I don't want to wait for Daddy; he made me laugh and burn with tears when he peeled away my shell and exposed me to the howling moon and then he filled me from crown to toe with heady blood, sweet and singing. My Angel made everything sing for me and claimed me in all the black and red sins the priests would warn me whilst and wiggle their gnarly fingers at me. Bad examples, the lot of them, all piety and no grand parties and dances. No puppets on strings to toy with. But Daddy ripped me out of my skin so I could play my nasty games and let the moon and stars sparkle and shine in my dreams and made me his special girl, so I ought to be grateful, Miss Edith says; the naughty fusspot, full of steam and no tea.  
  
But Daddy wants Grandmummy, Grandmummy made of onyx, glass and trimmed with gold. She's his favourite girl and I'm not invited, I can't play the sweaty frolics they like so much. All I can do is play with all my own friends - Miss Edith and her girls - and name the stars again and again, always the same name. Then I get lost in that sea of silver gems and I can't pull myself out without anyone to walk me home and I drown in the stars, with their thin hands pushing down my throat. Then the wind turns black and screeches in my ears and the moon scolds me with secrets.  
  
They said I should get myself a little playmate, even if Miss Edith says I ought not. A real playmate of flesh and blood and stony spirit, instead of all the imaginary friends that buck and swarm around pretty children, crying for a cuddle. Flesh, bone and blood, rough and untamed will be my new lullaby, all swirls of chaos in one great dance. The last great dance on earth. It's all worth Miss Edith's china frown and china disapproval, the nightshade hums, to have someone all to me. Someone as special as the stars themselves, as strong as the wolves, as lovely as a beating heart and as dark as midnight. Even better than Grandmummy and my angel. Miss Edith should behave like a good girl for my new friend and spot speaking out of turn in front of everyone. It's bad manners. I'll put silken spiderwebs over her eyes and ears so she can't see anymore, so she'll be silent and dead to the world for once. The moon whispers to me of where I can find myself my own champion to love me and claim me in blood and gore, ass I like it best. Raw and furious with lullabies in the background hissing in envy.  
  
I see the golden road the stars carved for me with blood-red ribbons falling from the sky for me, the whispers getting louder, growing into shrieks, and telling me where I can find a friend. I let my head roll back, let my raven wings caress my back while I listen to them sing of the glory and death. The sweet scent of flowers laced with blood and poems fills my nose and asks to sing me to sleep; silly thing.  
  
The stars all start chattering amongst themselves, bickering and gossiping with violent sparkles and shimmers about what my playmate will be like; eyes as sharp as mint, a spirit as wild as the wind, a heart without lies and filled over the brim with passion, and as evil as the storms in Daddy's eyes. Will this be what love is like? Will I know all the heartily games then? Will I know devotion and need and frenzies? Or will it be like being hounded by vicious monsters and beasts, all tooth and claw in red lights, being ripped to shreds and stitched back again? Will I be kissed by feathers and chastised by stones?  
  
The colours of the world begin to spin and turn inside; their song grand and dark; filling the gaping skies with their music, their words of wisdom. They tell me of great visions of violence, passion, desire and death, all rolled into one pretty present with sprinkles of real fire; eternal and unshakeable, on top. The paint such pictures of charred bodies, still warm and smoking with the stain of their agony, little children drained dry into limp dolls of alabaster porcelain, and torture's name lighting the clouds with gold. Knives, whips, branding irons. . .they all claim to be my presents from my beloved. The sands of time spread their callused hands and convulse their ancient faces as they speak, their voices dread monotone - they speak of my champion and I, how all the dark things will know our name and I find a little spring in my step. In the pitch, empty onyx darkness, a forked lightning will run when our names are spoken. The music for our black waltz is eternal, unstoppable and tempestuous. The moon nods her approval and the whispers of reprimanding nuns and the ghosts that twist my arm guide me to my special child. My only knight and only monster.  
  
All the grey whispers pull my face up into a wide smile, as bright and deadly as the sunshine, full of wicked promises as I try to find my little boy lost. To pick him up from the sallow starlight and bring him into pure, true darkness. To take his innocence and wear it as a new ribbon, pristine white like a lily blossom, ready to be plucked and wilt in crimson dewdrops. To kiss him goodnight and good morning and sing him to sleep in the cradle of my arms, where everything is right. To be his special Mummy and princess. I can rock his cradle of black stone and blood stains and carry him to the land of nod with my tales of little lambs in blackberry patches, caught and held fast in a tangle of nasty thorns and stinging thistles. Run and catch. . .  
  
And when he wakes up to my world of loneliness and secrets, of the moon's whispers and screams and of the maiden's prayer. His eyes will be carved out of amethysts and ice, his skin from ivory and his soul from rough raw silk - crimson and glistening like the moon's reflection in black, dead waters, the material pretty but deadly enough to strangle a golden butterfly of a lady, cut from the same cloth as a demon and devil. His loveliness will be dark and devilish, gleaming like the eyes of a hunter stalking its prey. That hunter will come to all my tea parties, or so the moon says, so she whispers in my ear when I dream.  
  
It's this one I've been dreaming of - this one I get to make such beautiful chaos with, blazing and icy, dark and alight with naughtiness. Our paintings will be a canvas of swirling ink, dead petals, and blood; hot and fierce, cold metal, musical chimes of screams and the sky slight with stars and a hollow moon, as empty as Miss Edith's scornful gaze. Sometimes I wonder why she is my friend, why I treat her to such wonderful things. She doesn't believe in my new child, my little devil for all the night to marvel at, quivering in their boots. Pure darkness and madness will dash our portraits, wild and raw, all wanting to come to our grand party where Discordia herself will be our guest of honour. I will hold the last of all parties one day, the pictures whisper through still-wet paint, dripping down like the tea I threw at my flowered wall, covered in red roses, all wrong. All digging nails into me and singing hymns - I can't abide them. Can't abide the light when it swings at me and pulls my insides apart. The Lord and all His Saints try to reach me with grey hands through those flowers, Mummy's favourites, sticking to my fingers and staining them red and ugly with filth. He makes me twitch with happiness already, he will never give me nasty, naughty flowers with bees that sting and spit with piety and chastity.  
  
He will be my pretty black blossom once I find him in this patch of weeds, so full of rude, disrespectful people that have never been at a decent and proper tea party in their lives. He will grow up to love his Mummy as she nurtures him in their cradle, humming and dancing and playing. No matter what the moon and stars predict he will be a good little child, I can feel him move in my veins already, so good to his princess. His eyes already seem like a memory, buried deep in the hollowed grounds of my head, so full of flowers and worms. When my blooded butterfly beats his joyous dark wings all of China will fall in the hurricane his murderous wants bring on in a dancing storm, all thunder and strings singing together and raining blood. When I hum this child to sleep and put him in his little cradle, so cold and still, blood, death, chaos and fire will come out. My boy will leave his colourless cocoon and become a brilliant butterfly, stinging like a hornet.  
  
But first I need to find him; everywhere I look I just see little people dressed up with tea and cakes in hand but with no party to go to. Some of them look at me all wrong, their eyes trying to burn holes all over me, I should spank them for their rudeness to a lady in search of her gentleman. Do they all want to marry me and join my new beloved I the cold ground with the dirt and rot for company?  
  
The stars all push me forward and start biting and snapping at my heels with teeth like pokers, red-hot and smouldering. The moon's songs die down into a long tired moan of grief then it starts to double over and laugh in triumph and the night sky sings the final chorus of its pretty song of searching and shines down on my present. The one I will choose with wisdom and knowledge of the pretty things he will make.  
  
Something wicked this way came. . .  
  
My mummy would suck her raw, red fingers and smile her strawberry-sweet smile at me for my choice. He's a beautiful little blossom, but all the petals have been pulled off by someone playing a game of 'She loves me, She loves me not. . .'. But you should only do that with daisies and this doe- eyed is no daisy. He's all topsy-turvy from what I expected on the outside - his face isn't a poem but his eyes and heart are full of it to the core, it burns in him and scorches his fingers when he tries to show other the pretty, dancing flame. His eyes are as blue as ice and hidden by a shroud of glass but they bleed with that nasty stab wound to his heart. He clutches his little bleeding heart like a broken doll and I can feel the hurt, pain and anger flow out of him like poison. Delicious on my greedy lips.  
  
He's a shadow, unnoticed by the world around him, so quiet and forever being hurt by those wicked sunbeams that don't play fair. Just like me. He deserves lots of cakes and tea and to sit at the best chair in Miss Edith's place. Maybe that's why she scowls so much at him in my dreams. I can see his wounds, the way his heart was cut and carved like a turkey at Christmas, the way he rips out those pretty poems in a cold, black rage and a secret helping of despair. Such a sad little boy with no-one to love him. A child that no-one knows is there, or cares to know, poor thing. No wonder he got lost in the dark waters of my dreams. He's going to drown in them now, my little suitor, and they still won't care.  
  
But I care. I will love and care for him, my champion. I can kiss away all his hurts with lips and blood. And he'll let me. The idea of all chaos has brought him to me and will keep him with me. I think I love him already; I see right into him, see what nobody sees. I can reach what nobody dares reach and touch what no-one wants to touch inside his tender devil heart and poetic soul. I see the age of chivalry having life breathed into it again, I see the deaths of many at his thin hands; the same hands that will dance a lovely merry jig down and inside my skin, I see power; I can smell it from the outside, like wet petals, crushed, foul and beautiful. How dare those haughty people laugh at me boy! How do they dare? How can they mock such a pretty thing with wisdom to outshine the stars and all of Miss Edith's scandalous secrets? In front of me is a blazing pyre, with merry fish dancing and screaming about his head, full of vision and glory, born to slash, bash, bite, torture and kill. He will love every minute of it. I see his insides and I love them, all eyes and hearts.  
  
He runs away from all their nasty words and laughs mocking him and pricking him with black thorns all over, burning his spirit to a charred crisp that not even dear Miss Edith can make good bread and jam out of. I stoop over his broken poems, his shattered words and hold he flimsy paper between my hands but their words are as strong as iron. Their beauty puts the moon to shame. Shame! She's only a ghost of a whisper, a shadow of a memory next to his wise words. But they're so stained with blood, sweat and tears and the stars hiss about a spoilt little wench that dreaded to find them. I would leave the world bleeding to have a glorious killer like him call me effulgent. He could've given her silly poppies and pansies and all their wasted words and shades scents but he gave her something to last forever; words of passion, words of woe. But now I will take what she threw away the dogs and dustbins and make a heaven of his hell and kiss him blind and sore with gore and gifts with my unique champion whilst she plays croquet and wonders why nobody likes all her parties. And why her puppets aren't wrapped around her fingers anymore. I'll take my golden, bloody beauty of a poet and show him how pretty the moon his and I'll teach him the songs and dances of forever if he'll be brave enough to close his eyes and take my hand. And then the stars will align for us and this town will burn for him. By taking the blood of one brilliant beam I will bring nasty deaths to so many. It makes me laugh and fly and love him all the more for being as brilliant as the shimmering gems behind his eyes, cold and cruel tempests they will be for the world, except his princess. I see him.  
  
The ghosts and my side dig their broken fingernails into my skin and howl warnings - they tell me he'll change like the wind. I can see him turn to poison against Daddy. It makes me soar with wonder; will he fight my angel for me? We can build a dark empire of naughtiness but the stars blaze with flames flying and sparking in all directions. Miss Edith scolds me, she says you can't control chaos, can't make it see straight of go in one direction and sing your own song. I still want to dance with him, to let the leaves crash and die as we sing. This must be her doing, naughty, meddling Miss Edith, spoiling all my lovely games. I'll have a blooded playmate. Someone to love me like I love the stars.  
  
The stars. . .they're still so lost and confused but their names are different this time. They're all called William. My William. My poet, my champion, my playmate. My sweet boy, with wisdom, passion and murder flowing through his veins, all red and bloody like poppy blossoms. I can see him in all his glory and love. He will make all my visions proud and my heart will grow with him in it, that sweet wise boy with that dark, marvellous villain behind his eyes.  
  
I shut my eyes and let all the songs and whispers rage inside me and whip out my cards, to make sure they know about my William, my partner for dances and brilliant, lovely murders. I take out the deciding three, the ones that can see as clear as I can into the silky threads of time, the ones always in the corner at my tea parties. At the centre: conflict. The way all the whispers collide and scratch at their eyes in fierce, wicked rages in my heart. I know them. To the future: Union. My William and I; together like dark shadows haunting babies in their cradles and burning all others like wildfire. And the controlling card: Fate.  
  
Fate. My William wants my gift, I can sense it, and I can see the chaos I lull in the cradle. If I spark out the sun something wonderful will be mine, the stars whisper. I'll save the best for him. I follow the trail of blood his broken heart leaves, picking up ruined words of poems as I go to bring him into darkness. I will spark out the sun and bring such sweet darkness to my boy, my William. All cakes and naughty treats. The moon turns scarlet and screeches like a banshee with fury and death. I swoop down behind this brilliant chaos and put him to sleep in the black cradle of death and blood. The lamb is caught in a blackberry patch. . .  
  
The butterfly spreads his wings and prepares to beat them. 


End file.
